The Anarchist

3. Pleased To Meet You

Watkins drives in such a haze that he almost misses Wilson's house. As he drags the vehicle to a halt across the street, the events from the last hour swirl through his head, the mental racket it creates so deafening that finding the clarity of mind to do anything efficiently is a chore. When at last he does surface, he notices a peculiar lack of activity in the house's surrounds. He would have expected a horde of journalists to swamp the building, but the only presences are that of three unidentified figures standing near a pair of police cars and a mortician's van.

A spectral gloom seems to have settled into the atmosphere, hovering over the place with a disturbing malevolence. As Watkins opens the car door, he is buffeted by a volatile gasp of wind which tugs and tears at his clothing as he steps onto the pavement. The trees along the roadside are devoid of leaves, and as the gust blows through them, the bare branches twist and click and scrape at the sky. It's strange, he thinks to himself, but it's almost like the air itself is angry.

A rectangle of light flashes from the front wall: The door is opening. A figure steps into the frame. All that is identifiable of the shape is that it is tall, but a little slouched. It pauses, perhaps speaking with someone inside, then shuts the door and hurries over to the other shapes in the garden.

Now sufficiently intrigued, Watkins makes for the house himself.
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As he approaches, the group becomes discernible. Three of them are just Goslington policemen. The person who just left the house is an elderly man. He is dark of skin, and much older than everyone else there, probably in his early sixties, as evidenced by his silver beard. He is dressed in a white lab-coat, beige, checked trousers and a rumpled shirt, which is missing several buttons near the collar. Watkins glances down at the front pocket of the coat and sees "A. Smylie, ME" printed on an ID tag.

"Doctor Smylie?" he asks.

Smylie, momentarily surprised at the presence of the young man before him, cocks his head to the side and waits patiently.

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"Yes?"

Upon noting Watkins's lack of uniform, he remains distrustful.

"Are you a reporter, boy?"

Watkins toys with what to say. His mind, still foggy from the recent events, cannot come up with anything besides the truth, so he goes with that.

"No sir, my name is Gavin Watkins. I-"

A flicker of realisation zaps across Smylie's face.

"Watkins! Of course! Old Richard's long-lost protégé! Sorry, mi-boy, sorry, sorry. You can't be too careful these with all of these raptors in the press lurking in the shadows. Look, you'd better hurry and let yourself in. There's a young woman in there who insisted upon seeing the body. Says she's Richard's long lost daughter, would you believe! I tried to dissuade her, but I'm afraid she was mightily determined. That, and I have a weak spot for anyone who knows their English. She's been in there long enough, and I would like my- er, the body now, if you please."

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"What makes you think that I would have any more progress than you?" Watkins asks him.

"She wants to see you, not me. Told me as much. Said if I saw you to send you straight to her, and here you are. Now, fond as I am of chit-chat, that body's deteriorating as we speak, and we're going to lose too much information if it sits there much longer."

The body. Watkins had forgotten that it will henceforth be referred to as "the body". There is an uncomfortable amount of identity and personality lost through the simple change from proper to common noun.